Absolutely Captivated by Kristine Grayson Page A

what looked like a decorated bra
and a pair of low-rider jeans. A pair of slides hung off her toes,
revealing very dirty feet.
    Next to her sat a redhead with hair so
short it looked like a crewcut. There was no mistaking her
femininity, though. Her green eyelet blouse and Capri pants
accented her lush figure. She would have looked exotic if she were
older, but at her age, which Zoe guessed to be about fifteen, she
simply managed to look rebellious.
    The third girl had cornrows decorated
with beads made out of real ivory. Even though she was wearing a
sleeveless dress, cut slim for someone without hips, she sat with
her legs crossed.
    Morton the Magician looked as scummy
as always. He wore a gold lamé sports jacket worthy of Elvis, and
tight brown polyester pants. His shoes were shiny tux pumps that he
had forgotten to polish. His hair was thinning on the top, and he
had circle combed it—apparently magic didn’t work with bald
spots.
    Zoe had to look around to find the
dachshund. He sat under the table, his tail wrapped around his
plump body, his head down as if he were embarrassed to be in such
company.
    Or maybe he was hungry. Or sick from
all those sausages.
    She felt a pang of guilt.
    “How come every time someone comes
here, they have a new problem?” the blond girl asked.
    “Just lucky,” said the redhead, and
blew a bright pink bubble. It grew until it was the size of her
face. The girl with cornrows looked like she was about to pop the
bubble when the redhead sucked it back into her mouth.
    Zoe had no idea what she was looking
at. So she stepped into the room.
    “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking
for the Fates.”
    “There she is.” Morton the
Magnificent pointed at her. His finger was stubby and the nail was
black and yellow, not with polish, either. “She’s the one who
magicked me here. That has to be against the rules.”
    The cornrow girl rolled her eyes. “I’m
not looking up another rule.”
    “We can’t find the ones we’re supposed
to find already.” The blond really was a whiner.
    “Can’t you all just leave and solve
stuff on your own?” asked the redhead.
    “I’d be happy to,” Zoe said, “if you
point me in the direction of the Fates.”
    “Gawd!” the cornrow girl
said.
    “How come nobody
thinks we’re the
Fates?” the blond asked.
    “Because we’re too
young,” said the redhead. “Even I’m beginning to think we’re too
young.”
    “That’s because you don’t want to do
any of the work,” the cornrow girl snapped.
    “Excuse me,” Zoe said again. “Um, I
know the Fates and believe me, you’re not them.”
    “We are them,” said the blond with
more anger than self-pity. “We’re just not the them that you were
expecting.”
    Morton was shaking his
head. The dachshund lay down, put his head on his paws, and whined.
Or moaned.
    “Has anyone given Bartholomew water?”
Zoe asked.
    “What do you care?” Morton
asked.
    “He’s been outside for three days, he
ate too many sausages, and I sent him here at his request. I notice
that no one let him out when he needed to go—” Zoe wrinkled her
nose. The pee smell on her shoes had trailed into the room with
her. “—and frankly, he doesn’t look all that well.”
    The dachshund raised his eyebrows at
her. His brown eyes were very intelligent, and if she wanted, she
could give him the power to speak English. She had done that
earlier, and had learned about all of his grievances. Then she had
sent him here. As far as she could tell, her spell had worn off,
but the Fates—wherever they were—would have known to spell him for
language.
    Or maybe they could just understand
him without it.
    “See, now, look.” Morton stood up and
hiked his pants up by the belt. The pants rose to the middle of his
bulky stomach, and were tight enough to reveal more of Morton than
anyone should actually be able to see. “She talks a good game, but
when push comes to shove, she don’t deliver. I mean, I paid her
good